


Too Many People, Making Too Many Problems

by Callisparrow



Category: Genesis (Band)
Genre: F/M, Fever, Fever Dreams, Friendship, M/M, Sickness, reassurance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 19:08:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3781060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callisparrow/pseuds/Callisparrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the true story of how "Land of Confusion" was written, as told by Mike Rutherford himself in his book "The Living Years" (a very good read, I recommend it for all Genesis fans). Details and dialogue obviously made up by me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Many People, Making Too Many Problems

Mike shifted under the sweat-soaked sheets and miserably shut his eyes to the pounding headache in his skull. It felt like his brain was about to burst with each passing heartbeat. He tossed and turned; each time he flung aside the covers to cool his burning body he was obliged to wrap them tight around himself again, shivering.

How was it possible to feel hot and cold at the same time?

“Fucking flu,” he whispered through clenched teeth.

He coughed into the sheets, wincing at the increase in blood pressure to his head. This was intolerable. Even the worst of his hangovers had never been this bad. He gazed blearily across the room at his writing desk, the loose sheets of paper with scribbled notes still scattered exactly where he had left them. He wanted to finish those lyrics. Needed to, in fact. But he was just so tired...

He lay as still as possible, breathing shallowly from his mouth and feeling his clogged nose dribble into the pillow. If he listened very carefully he could just make out the sound of the kids playing outside somewhere on the expansive lawn. Angie would be with them now, maybe... poor sweet Angie. She puts up with so much shit, Mike thought with a stab of guilt. Ever since he had fallen ill she hadn't been far from his side, bringing him glass after glass of water and cups of tea, and trying to feed him soup. He had tried to eat but he simply didn't have an appetite for anything. Even the water was painful to swallow, the way his throat felt now. He eyed the full glass on the nightstand with some distaste.

Angie deserves better, he thought. He spent the next quarter-hour or so wallowing in self-pity until he fell into an uneasy sleep.

Deep in the fever, his dreams unfolded bizarrely into strange visions. On some level he was aware of being ill in bed, but his physical self seemed so far away. He wandered through a blackened nuclear landscape where exploded scrap metal smoked and liquefied under his feet. The crumbling walls of destroyed buildings distorted and grew, towering miles above his head into a volcanic sky, choked with smog. Each time he turned over in bed he heard a fresh scream from somewhere in the apocalypse's shadow, until the millions of suffering voices blurred into a terrifying roar...

He felt a gentle touch on his forehead and he jerked awake with a wordless gasp.

“Mike?” Angie's voice was soft and cool. “Oh, you're burning up.”

“I'm okay,” he mumbled. His head still pounded with the fever dream.

“No you're not,” she said more firmly, and held the glass of water before his eyes. “You've had nothing to drink.”

He groaned. Everything seemed very far away and yet his wife's beautiful features loomed large, her lovely blonde hair spilling over her shoulders and onto the bed, curling like living vines all over the floor. Or was he imagining that too? After much coaxing he finally managed to sit up and force some of the water down his burning throat. He sank back into the sheets and tried to smile for Angie but was bothered by the weirdest sensation that his teeth were growing too large for his mouth.

“How's the patient, Angie?” Another familiar voice intruded on his consciousness and he frowned.

“Huh? Is that—”

“Yes, Phil's here to see you!” Angie said brightly. “Come in, Phil. It's very kind of you to visit.”

“Oh, it's not all kindness today, I'm afraid.” Phil gave a short laugh as he stepped into the room, his eyes crinkling in a smile. “Hi, Mike. Feeling better yet?”

“No, not really,” he replied thickly. His teeth still felt very strange. He watched Phil hover at the end of the bed, understandably not wanting to catch his disease. For some reason he was unreasonably distracted by the glitter of Phil's watch and gold bracelet chain that tinkled slightly as he shoved his hands into his pockets.

“I'm sorry. I suppose we'll just have to call the undertaker... haha, but listen, you let Angie take care of you, awright?” Phil was saying. “She tells me Rutherford has been a very disobedient lad and she's very worried about him. 'Course my reasons for being here are purely selfish.” He winked.

“Phil wanted to know if you had the new lyrics finished,” Angie said in a patient tone, sensing that Mike's attention was starting to wane.

“Actually it was Tony who wanted to know,” Phil said. “But he sent me to the house of sickness instead.”

Mike groaned again, silently this time. Wasn't that just like Tony? He could almost hear his friend's impatient voice now... 'Phil, I don't care even if he's dying, we need those lyrics now.'

“He does send his regards,” Phil added helpfully.

“Well. They're nearly finished,” Mike said, turning his gaze to the desk again. “The notes are there. I just didn't have the energy to write them all out.”

“I'll help you, then!” Phil chirped. Before Mike could tell him otherwise, Phil retrieved the scraps of paper from the desk, pulled a notepad and pen from his pocket, and sat lightly at the foot of the bed. “Here. You read these and just tell me what to write.”

As Angie adjusted the pillows to help him sit up, and after she made him drink some rather disgusting medicine, Mike sifted through his disorganized notes. His eyes swam as he tried to make sense of them.

“Don't keep him up for too long,” Angie said, patting Phil's shoulder as she walked towards the door. She seemed to glide smoothly over the floor without touching it.

“Yes, ma'am,” replied Phil with a little salute. “Don't worry, I won't darken your door much longer, I promise.”

“Oh, you're always welcome here, Phil,” Angie laughed. “I'm glad you stopped by.” She closed the door softly behind her and went downstairs. Mike listened to her retreating footsteps echo in the spacious hall.

“I don't deserve her,” he mourned very quietly.

“What are you talking about, of course you do,” Phil scoffed. “She's a very lovely lady and I can't think of a better man for her.”

“She knew plenty of better men. Before we were married, you know.”

“What? You mean wossisname she lived with before? Don't make me laugh. He was a pig.”

“Even he would be better.” Mike's voice was very low and gravelly. “At least he was good-looking. Look at me, I'm ill and useless and I'm never at home anymore—”

“You're home now.”

“No, no, I'm not, we're on tour, remember. We had to go to Acapulco without the kids. But she stays with me, Phil. I'll never understand...” His swollen eyes watered as he stared at the ceiling.

Phil raised an eyebrow as he listened to Mike's slow, rambling speech. Acapulco?

“Uh huh. I don't know exactly what you're talking about, Mike,” he finally said, “but I think you might be a touch delirious.”

“Oh well, it's all the same to me,” Mike replied, not fully registering. He tore his eyes away from the ceiling and glanced at Phil, only to burst into a fit of giggling.

“What's so funny?”

Mike couldn't answer for a while and started coughing.

“Sorry,” he said at last, wiping his eyes and nose with a tissue that Phil gingerly handed to him. “It's just... hahaha, the way you're sitting on the bed. You crossed your legs and it looked like you were a secretary just then.”

“Aha, you like that, do you,” Phil chuckled. He fluttered his eyelashes, arranged himself very daintily in his seat, and allowed his voice to go up a register or two: “In that case I'm ready for your dictation, Mr. Rutherford!”

When they were done laughing they began to look over the notes in earnest. In spite of the fever and his unfocused thinking, Mike found it was much easier to compose what he had in mind with Phil's diligent help. In almost no time at all he remembered the scattered bits of unwritten song and spoke them aloud.

“Can you read me that first one again?” asked Phil.

“Right. 'I must have dreamed a thousand dreams, been haunted by a million screams...'”

“And then the one about 'I can see the fire's still alight, they're burning into the night,' is that right?”

Mike nodded. It almost seemed as though he had lived these words before, somewhere.

“Right, I think we've got it!” Phil said once they had finished at last. He stood up and put the freshly transcribed lyrics into his pocket. “Now get some sleep. Don't think about the album, don't think about anything.” He patted the thick comforter at the end of the bed, tucking it around Mike's feet. “And hey— remember,” he continued, shaking a stern finger. “Angie stays with you because she loves you. And so do I. So get well soon.”

Mike smiled weakly and promised he would. He watched Phil blow a playful kiss and leave the room as suddenly as he had arrived, leaving him alone and shivering in the clammy sick-bed once more.

Well. It might have been rubbish, he thought, but at least the lyrics were finally out of the way. He turned over one last time before returning to his fitful dreams.

 

* * *

 

“Ah, look who's back!”

“Mike, aww, it's been ages!”

Back in the studio and mostly recovered from his ordeal, Mike accepted Phil's tight squeezing hug with a quiet smile. It seemed a week or two of sleep, hot soup and tender care was all he needed to put him right again.

“Thanks, mate,” he said, still slightly congested but breathing easier. “I missed you, too. Even you, Mr. 'I-won't-risk-getting-sick-so-I-send-the-drummer-instead',” he laughed at Tony. But Tony frowned back at him from behind the keyboards, perplexed.

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, you sent Phil over to my house, remember, to get my lyric...” He trailed off as his two friends stared at him, uncomprehending.

“I was never at your house, Mike,” said Phil.

“What?” He froze, his mind instantly thrown into confusion. He couldn't possibly have imagined all that. He could never hallucinate a whole person, not even in the most delirious of fevers... could he? He was seriously questioning his own sanity when Phil covered his mouth to stifle a laugh.

“Mike,” he grinned.

“What?”

“We're only kidding.”

Tony's ironclad composure broke in the very next instant with a loud snort of laughter. He and Phil spent the next few breathless minutes giggling helplessly.

“Oh, you bastards,” Mike grumbled, covering his eyes in disgust.

But in the end, the relief was such that he couldn't help laughing, too.


End file.
